It was when we were on our way to “Kirkoobry,” which had been recommended to us by the Dells, that we saw dozens of cars and bicycles and crowds of people on foot converging upon a large farm-house amongst a fine grove of beech trees. Charles, who was always interested in everything that was going on, drew up at the side of the road and spoke to a jolly-looking red-faced man.
“What’s happening over there?” asked Charles.
“It’s a displenishing.”
This was a new word to both of us.
“It’s a roup,” explained the man. “Auld Smith’s deid, ye ken. His things are being sold.”
By this time several other men had stopped to speak to us, all of whom were benevolently minded and eager to instruct the ignorant stranger.
“It looks a nice farm,” said Charles. “Did the owner die some time ago?”
“It was a week back,” replied a man with a blue muffler round his neck.
“Did he strain his back?” asked Charles sympathetically.
There was a pause . . . but it was too difficult to explain. The problem was solved by a tall thin man with a collie at his heels, “You’ll be a foreigner,” he said.
“No, I’m British,” Charles told him.
“He’s meaning a stranger tae these pairts,” said the red-faced man, smiling in a friendly manner.
“Oh, I see,” nodded Charles. “Yes, I don’t know this part of the country. What about the sale? Is it just farm implements: tractors and ploughs and things?”
“Na, na!” replied a very old man in a squeaky voice. “There’s a wheen o’ fine beasts.”
“It’ll no’ be beasts he’s wantin’,” said the man with the blue muffler.
They agreed unanimously that Charles wouldn’t be wanting beasts.
“It’s a trailer I’m after,” explained the jolly-looking red-faced man. “Mebbe you’ll be mair interested in the furnishings. There’s guid stuff at Smith’s farm-hoose: tables and chairs and beds and books and cairpets . . . and such-like.”
“Books?” asked Charles eagerly.
“Buiks for readin’,” nodded the very old man. “Auld Smith was a great yin for readin’ buiks.”
I knew then that we were lost. I said, “Perhaps we could get some furniture for the spare room.”
“Good idea!” agreed Charles.
We said good-bye to our new friends and drove on.
The displenishing sale was in full swing. The house was crowded with all sorts and conditions of people, the noise was deafening. I had intended to stick to Charles like a leech, but, as we entered, a horde of people came out of one room and surged across the hall; I was caught in the current and swept into the dining-room.
Just beside me was a small tea-trolley, it was in good condition so I decided to buy it. I watched the bidding carefully—I had never before been to a sale so it was somewhat bewildering. When the trolley came up for sale I bid for it but they went so fast that I got muddled and it was knocked down for twelve and sixpence to an unpleasant-looking individual in a bowler hat. This was absurd, I would willingly have paid double!
Then everyone moved to the kitchen and, as before, I was carried along with the stream. I was looking at a copper preserving pan—and had made up my mind to bid for it—when someone touched my arm and said, “Are you Mrs Reede?”
It was a small woman in tweeds with a thin face and smiling brown eyes.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Mrs Maitland has a photograph of you on her desk. I’m Mrs Mark Dunne. I saw you bidding for that little trolley—it was bought by a dealer from Glasgow. You have to be terribly quick when there are dealers.”
“It was stupid of me to lose it, but I’ve never done this before,” I explained.
“That’s a nice preserving pan; would you like me to bid for you?”
I accepted the offer gratefully and she bought it for me for seventeen and six, which was a good bargain.
Then we moved to another room and she bought a chair for herself and a hearthrug for me. I was surprised when I saw her bidding for a very dilapidated electric radiator . . . it was in such bad condition that she got it for half a crown.
“Mark will mend it,” she explained. “He’s good at that sort of thing and it amuses him. He’s a doctor, you know. Do you want to buy anything else, Mrs Reede?”
I wanted some furniture for the spare room, but I had lost Charles and I didn’t know what he was buying . . . and the house had become so crowded and noisy and the atmosphere so stifling that I couldn’t bear it any longer. Mrs Dunne agreed that it was insupportable so we went out together and sat on a garden seat.
“It must be difficult for you coming to a place where you know nobody and everybody knows you,” suggested Mrs Dunne.
“Does everybody know us?” I asked in surprise.
She nodded. “We all know Colonel and Mrs Maitland so we’ve heard all about you . . . and the building of your little house has caused quite a sensation in the neighbourhood.”
“You said your husband was a doctor, Mrs Dunne. Have you been here long?”
“Yes, all our lives. You see Mark is the son of Admiral Dunne of Dunnian House. You’ve probably heard of him. His daughter, Celia, and her husband live with him there; they have two little girls. My sister-in-law will be very interested when I tell her I’ve met you.” She added with a smile, “We’ve all been wondering what you were like.”
We were still talking when Charles came out of the house with his arms full of books; I introduced him to my new friend.
“I’m glad I’ve found you,” he said. “I’ve bought these. Will you keep an eye on them if I put them beside you on the seat? It’s a set of Waverley Novels . . . but not a complete set. There was a dealer who was willing to pay thirty pounds for them if they had been complete. I got them for five. It doesn’t matter to me whether or not the set is complete; I don’t want to put them on a shelf and look at them; I want to read them . . . and this lot will keep me going for some time,” added Charles with a chuckle.
“Haven’t you read them before?” asked Mrs Dunne.
“No. Awful admission, isn’t it?”
She looked at him gravely and replied, “I hope you’ll enjoy them, Mr Reede. I think you will.” Then she took up one of the books and added, “Oh, this is a very nice edition!”
“It’s good print, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and delightful pictures. Look at this one of Dandie Dinmont! He’s a dear old ruffian, isn’t he? I hope all the best ones are here. Yes, here’s Rob Roy and Redgauntlet and The Antiquary . . . and yes, all my favourites! You’ve done well, Mr Reede.”
“I’ll fetch the other things,” said Charles and went back into the house.
“I hope he has bought a carpet and a dressing-table for the spare room,” I said.
“If he has done so he’s a most unusual man; Mark would never think of it,” declared Mark’s wife, smiling. “I’ve given up bringing Mark to sales; he loses his head completely and buys all sorts of curious things—because they’re cheap or because he takes a fancy to them and is sure they’ll ‘come in useful.’ I don’t really blame him,” she added. “It’s awfully difficult not to lose your head.”
A few minutes later Charles reappeared with an old-fashioned weather-glass in a mahogany case, a tattered book of Scottish ballads, a two-handed saw and a picture in a very large fretwork frame. He showed us the weather-glass first.
“There, what do you think of that?” said Charles proudly. “Nice, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted one of these. We’ll hang it in the hall. Another chap was keen on it, so I had to pay more than I intended, but I got the saw cheap. I thought it would come in useful.”
“Did you manage to get a carpet for the spare room?” I asked.
“Oh, I forgot! Anyhow a new carpet will be nicer, won’t it? We’ll get it when we go to Edinburgh. You like the weather-glass, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s lovely. What about that picture, Charles?”
“Oh, the picture! That was a mistake.” He sat down and added, “It was frightfully hot and noisy and I got a bit muddled. I thought I was bidding for a nice little medicine cabinet for the bathroom and then I discovered that I had bought that picture in the fretwork frame. It’s frightful, isn’t it? Could we give it away to someone or shall I cut up the frame for firewood with the saw?”
Mrs Dunne and I burst out laughing.
“Yes, it’s funny,” agreed Charles, smiling in sympathy. “And anyhow I only paid seven and sixpence for it so it doesn’t matter very much.”
It was getting late now so we said good-bye to Mrs Dunne and having collected our various purchases we put them into the car and drove home.
“That’s a nice woman,” said Charles. “She has a charming smile; how did you pick her up, Sarah?”
“She picked me up,” I replied . . . and I told him all that I knew about Mrs Dunne and her relations.
Chapter Five
Grandmama was not very well. I had been to see her and had found her in bed . . . but she was quite cheerful and declared that she intended to get up for tea.
“It was just one of my giddy turns,” she explained.
I felt a little worried as I walked home up the path. She looked frail and tired.
Charles was digging in the garden. He put down his spade and came to meet me.
“I’ve just been speaking to your sister on the telephone,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“How well you know her! She never bothers about you unless there’s ‘something wrong.’ In this case it isn’t a major disaster: Nurse has got appendicitis and——”
“But that is a major disaster! Who is looking after Freddie?”
“Lottie is ‘trying to cope’ but apparently without much success; I was given a lamentable account of the child’s behaviour: she won’t eat her nice dinner; she refuses to have a bath and she screams in the night.”
“I shall have to go at once.”
“That’s Lottie’s idea. I don’t agree.”
“I must! Freddie needs me!”
“Listen, darling! A mother ought to be able to look after her own child. This may be a blessing in disguise for Lottie.”
“It’s Freddie I’m thinking of!”
“Spare a thought for poor rich Lottie who has never learnt to do anything for anyone in her life.”
“Oh, Charles!” I said miserably.
“Wait for a day or two and see what happens,” suggested Charles. “My guess is that things will settle down and they will learn to love each other. It’s unnatural for a mother not to love her child.”
When I was in London I had gone down to Brailsford as often as I could to look after Freddie when nurse wanted a week-end off duty. Sometimes I had wondered if it was the right thing for me to be at Lottie’s beck and call but always I had thought of Freddie and had answered the summons . . . and now, here was Charles, voicing my secret misgivings!
“Wait for a day or two,” repeated Charles. “Give them a chance to get to know each other. It’s the best thing for them both.”
I was the more ready to believe him because Freddie was such a darling that I couldn’t understand how anyone could help loving her.
“Well?” said Charles, eyeing me quizzically.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I admitted. “But if Freddie gets ill . . .”
“She won’t,” said Charles.
*
Charles was usually correct in his judgment of human beings and their reactions but on this occasion he was wrong: two days later I received a telegram saying, Frederica ill temperature 102 come at once Lottie.
After that Charles made no more objections; he said, “We’ll start tomorrow morning at five o’clock. I like clear roads.”
“I can go by train, Charles. You don’t want to come, do you?”
“I’d rather come than be left at home without you . . . besides if I’m on the spot I can make sure you don’t stay too long,” said Charles cheerfully. He added, “I can stay in Oxford and look up some of my old friends.”
This seemed an excellent plan: for one thing it would be much more pleasant for me to go in the car with Charles, and, for another, it would be good for Charles to meet his Oxford friends. I had hopes that some day Charles would feel inclined to complete a book which he had written during his stay in Oxford. The book was an account of his experiences as an undergraduate—he had written it in German, intending it to be published in Vienna—but his English was now so good that he could easily translate it. The work would be pleasant and it would give him worth-while employment.
*
It was still dark when we shut up the cottage and started on our journey. There had been several degrees of frost in the night and it was very cold but the roads were perfectly dry so we made good progress. Presently there was a greyness in the air, the stars faded, the sky in the south-east brightened to palest yellow and the sun rose in a blaze of glory. We lunched in a country hotel, and walked about the garden to stretch our legs, then we took to the road again and arrived at our destination soon after four o’clock.
Brailsford Manor was a beautiful old house, standing in a fine park. It had been bought by Clive’s father, Sir Frederick Hudson, and completely restored. The avenue was wide and smooth; the gardens surrounding the house were in perfect order . . . in fact, both inside and out, Brailsford was as near perfection as money could make it.
The front door opened as we stopped at the bottom of the steps and Lottie ran out to meet us.
“Why are you so late?” she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for hours. Frederica is still feverish but she won’t stay in bed—I can’t do anything with her! You’ll have to stay until Nurse is well enough to come back.”
“How do you do, Lottie?” said Charles with chill politeness.
“Oh, how d’you do, Charles?” replied Lottie casually. She added “You had better go straight up to the nursery, Sarah. You know the way, don’t you? I’ve put you and Charles in the west spare room. Charles can come in and talk to Clive while the footman carries in the luggage. Don’t bother about the car; Brookes will put it in the garage.”
“Thank you, Lottie, but I’m going to Oxford,” said Charles.
“You must stay here. The room is ready for you.”
“No, thank you. I’ve engaged a room at the Mitre.”
“Well, you must stay to dinner, anyhow.”
I left them arguing and ran upstairs to the top floor. I certainly knew my way.
Freddie was lying face-down on the top of her bed; she was fully dressed but asleep. Her hair was tangled and the small hand, which was dangling over the side of the bed, was hot and dry and very dirty. I sat down beside her for a few minutes, wondering whether I should waken her and undress her or let her sleep. It was a year since I had seen Freddie, so perhaps she might have forgotten me. What should I do if she were shy and frightened?
Presently she turned over and opened her eyes.
“Hallo, Freddie!” I said.
The next moment she was in my arms, a small soft bundle; she was kissing me with hot dry lips.
“Darling, dear!” I exclaimed, rocking her to and fro. “Darling little Freddie!”
“You’re here,” she said. “Mummie said you were coming. I wouldn’t have my barf. Mummie is too quick, she doesn’t dry the creases. You can do it. I’ll show you where Nurse keeps her apron. Nurse had a pain. She’s gone away. Vera’s gone away too.” She had begun to cry. Huge tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Nurse will soon come back. They’ve taken her to hospital to make her pain better. Come and show me where Nurse keeps her apron.”
I bathed her, dried her very carefully and put on her nightdress; then I gave her some Milk of Magnesia, which I found in Nurse’s cupboard, and carried her to bed. The warm water had soothed her, as I had hoped, and she went to sleep almost at once.
I w
as tidying up the bathroom when the door opened very quietly and Mrs White looked in. Mrs White was Lottie’s cook; she had been at Brailsford Manor ever since Lottie’s marriage.
“Well, there now!” said Mrs White. “It’s nice to see you, Mrs Reede; there’s been nothing but trouble since Nurse was took away—gashly she looked!—but there isn’t any sense in you doing the bathroom. I’ll send Lucy.”
“It’s done,” I replied, smiling and shaking hands. “It didn’t take me a minute. How are you, Mrs White?”
“I’d be better if it wasn’t for me breathing. Some days it nearly kills me . . . I don’t ’ave to ask how you are, Mrs Reede. Marriage seems to suit you. That job you ’ad at Barrington’s took a lot out of you; very poorly you looked sometimes—if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Mrs White was a middle-aged woman, stout, with very black hair. She was very garrulous but her nature was kind and her cooking was cordon bleu standard. Her aitches were a bit shaky—but what is an aitch more or less compared with a light hand for mille feuilles pastry? Lottie didn’t appreciate her good fortune in having such a wonderful cook.
“That pore child!” said Mrs White. “There’s been too many screaming fits since Nurse was took bad. It’s constipation if you ask me. I said as much to ’er ladyship but she wasn’t pleased. As a matter of fack Nurse is getting a bit too long in the tooth for Miss Frederica. They ought to get——”
“Mrs White, who is Vera?” I interrupted.
“There now! I was just going to mention Vera,” said Mrs White in surprise. “You took the words out of me mouth, Mrs Reede. Vera was ’er ladyship’s maid, a nice, bright girl—I like Vera—and she was good with Miss Frederica. She’s got little sisters of ’er own.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She took the huff, that’s why. She gave in ’er notice and left a week before Nurse was took bad—it never rains but it pours. It isn’t easy to please ’er ladyship; she ’asn’t found another maid yet, so Lucy ’as to maid ’er. Lucy does ’er best—I will say that—but she hasn’t had the training that Vera ’ad, so what can you expect? ’Air-dressing,” added Mrs White. “’Air-dressing was Vera’s fort.”
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 4